by Diane Baumer
“I don’t want to bother them. They don’t even know I play. Why mess around if I’ll probably be back in Mexico soon?” he said sarcastically.
They said goodbye to each other affectionately. By the time Brother Lucas hung up, his blood was boiling. He put on some warm clothes. At the sight of the Mexican, Cinnamon rushed toward him. There was no need for words. They both needed to get it off their chests. They went for a run down the mountain.
At that time, Lina was locked inside her study rehearsing for upcoming concerts in China, Thailand, and the Philippines. In those countries, she intended to play a repertory of contemporary compositions – Eight Memories in Watercolor by Chinese composer Tan Dun, Four Dances of Nasreddin Hoca by Turkish Fazil Say, three pieces by Mexican Hilda Paredes, and, finally, two by Nigerian Joshua Uzoigwe. Enlivening 21st century scores left he pianist with a pleasant sensation of high spirits. Those musical notes would be the next milestone in music history, and her fingers had been among the first fortunate enough to feel them.
The pianist quickly turned the page with her left hand while using her right one to play Fazil Say’s score. She pictured her mother smiling inside the piano as she memorized the new piece to later assist her during the concert. My mother would always smile, even during her last days, when she was already too sick. Her image is etched on my memory forever. Listen, mom! This is a new score for you.
She had gone through a hard time to persuade the managers so they would embrace a fully contemporary program. Despite their reluctance, tickets sold out as soon as they went on sale. Including piano pieces from countries as diverse as Nigeria or Turkey had resulted in a great success. The audience in a globalized world would enjoy a kind of visa-free music, the one in which domestic and imported creations were combined away from prejudices or complexes.
On the stand, there was an opened-out sheet of Sobre un páramo sin voces (Over Voiceless Wasteland), composed by Mexican Hilda Paredes. The music, as magnificent and heartbreaking as the title suggests, evokes a barren land where life had been eaten away by the desert. What a thought! Plus, those horrible nightmares about the goldfinch. Today, I dreamed it was locked inside the piano and my hands weren’t strong enough to lift the lid. It was awful to hear the bird suffocate. And when François came to help, instead of the Carduelis, there was Tuna – dead. For a minute, I thought I too would suffocate from anxiety. Awake though I was, I was virtually out of breath.
She went out into the garden, hoping that the goldfinch would show up at any moment. It was beautifully sunny. The bird did not come. The pianist remained lost in her own thoughts as she stared out at the horizon. May the goldfinch have returned to the place where I saw it, with the friar and the charming dog? I would like to go back there. That scene looked like a canvas by Patinir. I hope it was real, not just a figment of my disturbed imagination.
The squeak of an eagle startled her. The animal circled the peak of the mountain as if trying to fit a sunbeam into its flight.
Lina started the car. We’ll see if I can still remember the way to the lookout I visited that day.
The curves made her feel like those dervishes who whirl over and over again until they eventually manage to fall into a trance. I’m not sure where I am. That day, I was so troubled that I drove aimlessly. At the sight of a sign pointing out a vantage point, she speeded up in excitement, but then stopped the car in bewilderment. As far as she could recall, that landscape looked different. She started to walk around, trying to locate the path that had brought Cinnamon and herself together. However, she was unsuccessful. She could make out a town in the background. Nobody there, however, managed to tell her the way to such place as a nearby Franciscan congregation. She tried a couple of paths, though she was not successful in her quest. The afternoon was coming to an end. I’d better go back. Getting lost around here may be dangerous. It’s been over an hour since I last crossed paths with another car. Imagine I get stuck and run out of signal...
When she arrived home, it was dark. François was not there. Her call went straight to voicemail.
Brother Lucas crossed himself before drinking Brother Bartolo’s mixture. May God want my body to get used to this, so I will get immunized.
When he was alone in his cell, the Mexican knelt down facing the Cross. Would He not listen to his prayers? How could God allow the Church itself to unjustly repudiate Brother Simón, a skilled, noble man?
Why, LORD, do You stand at a distance
And pay no heed to these troubled times?
Arrogant scoundrels pursue the poor;
They trap them by their cunning schemes.
The wicked even boast of their greed.12
14. Andreas
Lina spent a terrible night waiting for François. She was completely sure that he would be through some serious setback. Otherwise, her darling would have given him a good reason for not staying the night. As many as three times she drove down the dark road, from the house to the highway, fearing that an accident might have happened. To top it all, the pianist had found on the floor the last score she had played with Andreas, her first partner – before he had committed suicide. Was that not supposed to be a signal? She looked for the farewell letter he had written to her.
While she was pulling it out of the cabinet, a sunbeam shone between two clouds. In her puzzlement, Lina could see how the room became filled with gentle geometric red-and-violet lights. Closing her eyes did not work for her, since the phosphenes continued to float on her retina. The mere idea of her dead boyfriend trying to communicate would overwhelm the woman with great anguish. She opened the letter, trembling.
“Confession of a Coward,” she said in grief, in case her voice could be heard by the dead.
“Lina, every word of mine will remove a stone from the vault in which my feelings began lying long before I met you. The reason being…? Well, I wish I knew what it is. Maybe it is all owing to being born with that disability. I have been a failing Teuton in all respects – dark, short, skinny, and faint-hearted. I should never have allowed you to come into my life, knowing that sooner or later my shadow would throw me over the bridge. How mortified I have been for my selfishness…! As an outstanding timid person, I have long been waiting for you to come up with a break-up decision. I remember the morning I saw you for the first time. You came to rehearse Prokofiev’s Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 3 with the Munich Philharmonic. You smiled shyly at us with your deeply captivating ethereal air. I contemplated you behind the double bass, wondering if, the same way I did, you had chosen a huge instrument out of the need to cling to something sturdy that would make up for your fragility. The first time we spoke, you told me you were upset by the fact that such a beautiful instrument as a double bass was marginalized on most scores as mere accompaniment. It touched my heart that a performer of an instrument as imposing as the piano would be aware of musical injustice despite her privileged position, and she would look for a way to compensate the victims of such favoritism, including compositions in your concerts for those left aside. It came as a surprise to me that you suggested us rehearsing together bass and piano pieces. ‘Didn’t she notice I’m a real weirdo?’ I asked myself.”
The reading had prompted Lina to recall that day. She had learned that the orchestra bass player had just joined in following a suicide attempt. As she approached him, she was suddenly attracted to him, with an irrepressible desire of snatching a victim from death. When they played together, she discovered that the otherwise cold, sullen misanthrope actually radiated warmth and nobility through his instrument. No one could understand his unfathomable, weary duality better than she would. Both became an indivisible unit which would breath and beat in unison. Our sounds crossed paths harmoniously to help each other leave the jam in which we both had been living. There are still people mentioning to me how magical those concerts were. Why did you make that decision? When exactly did the carriage turn into a pumpkin? I was t
wo months pregnant. I didn’t even have time to tell you. Poor little son of mine... The angel of death snatched him from my womb.
15. The piano
Brother Lucas was going back and forth around the convent frantically, endeavoring to get some farm work done and watching his step to avoid stumbling – his thoughtless rowdy animal entourage was now and then standing in his way, causing him to lose his balance.
“Holy nonsense...”
In the distillery, the friars were intoning Vavilov’s Ave Maria13. As he kept working, Brother Lucas decided to handle the vocal solo. In the library, the custodian ceased his reading – he became captivated by the sound of Brother Lucas’ voice. Oh my God, what a wonder! That throat is blessed by You.
It seemed to him that a passing cloud had come to a halt to listen, while the breeze was striving to hold its breath, so no sound would interfere with that heavenly voice. The only thing moving under the clear blue sky was a white object approaching the monastery. Brother Pedro stood up as soon as he realized.
“They’re coming!” he announced to those present.
The sound of the bell dispelled the music. Brother Lucas checked the time in surprise. Brother Daniel’s clock must be broken.
After he saw everyone run to the front door, he left.
“What’s wrong?”
The friars shared knowing looks, yet none of them said a word. The Mexican had the feeling he was the only one who was unaware of the issue.
The van was greeted joyfully. Two burly men got out of it. The custodian offered to help them.
“We are good, thank you. You just pray we won’t go off the roadside on our way back... Damn curves!”
When they opened the back doors, Brother Lucas became so shocked that the friars gave him a funny smile – there was an old upright piano.
“Shut your mouth, Brother, unless you want a fly to get into it,” Brother Bartolo whispered.
The Mexican rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Either he was dreaming, or his mentor had spread the word about the piano. Brother Simón...
Brother Pedro ruffled his hair the way a little kid would.
“It’s not in great shape, though. It was a donation. We have no money. I hope it sounds decent.”
“No matter what, it’ll keep my fingers fit. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You actually can – just use it.”
The instrument was placed in a room overlooking the cloister.
“On the days it’s warm outside, we’ll leave the windows wide-open and sit in the courtyard just to listen to you,” Brother Pedro said.
Friar Lucas pictured the scene – the choir, distributed on either side of the elegant windows; behind them, the piano.
Thank you, my Lord, for providing me again with the ability to delight You.
“Well, give it a try...”
“Indeed. We can’t wait.”
After adjusting the seat, the Mexican put his hands together in a devoted attitude.
“Lord, bless my clumsy fingers and forgive the countless mistakes they are about to make.”
As soon as the first chords were pressed, the old Brother Miguel crossed himself with a hurtful grin on his face. Keys that wouldn’t work, out-of-tune notes, metal noises... A miracle, at the very least, would be needed to turn that awful sound into music!
“Can’t it get fixed?” one of the friars asked.
Brother Lucas shook his head.
“It would cost a lot of money. Some pieces of this piano need a replacement so badly – strings, keys, hammers...”
The custodian was feeling sorry about the failure. The young man was in need of a little boost to his mood. His emaciated bony face contrasted with the fortitude he tried hard to feign. Some days ago, Brother Pedro had decided to ask his Mexican counterpart for advice.
“A piano,” the latter had replied without hesitation.
“Does he play? What a surprise!”
“He learned here. Believe me – Brother Lucas is highly talented.”
It will help him stand up for himself when tough times strike. Lord, please take care of him. Look at the way the whole monastery woke up today. I hope no one saw what was stuck at the door. I took it off quickly. I can’t understand what is wrong. Where do we come in the disappearance of some students? Show me the path, Father. I am now groping my way in the dark by a river full of crocodiles.
The following morning, Brother Lucas woke up in high spirits. Having a piano, even if it was not in the best condition, made him feel less like a stranger in that place. After the matins, he went for a walk with Cinnamon. When they returned, the friar crouched before him and whispered in his ear.
“If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you come inside and hear me play.”
Even if it did not probably understand what that was supposed to mean, the dog put on its happiest face after thinking that might actually be an interesting proposal.
Once in the room, Cinnamon lay down beside the friar. The scene brought to Brother Lucas mind one of his childhood mischiefs. While the friars were praying for the terce, he had opened the gates to the farm and guided its loud residents to the piano.
“You know, Cinnamon? I played Debussy’s Golliwogg’s Cakewalk for them. You can picture the sight of that – ducks running in circles, hens cackling like crazy, dogs like you barking at everyone else...”
The friar could not refrain from crying with laughter as he recalled how a hen had laid an egg on the piano.
“Holy animals,” he said beaming with joy, as he wiped his tears away before placing his hands on the first chord of Mozart’s Sonata No. 8 in A minor, K. 310.
16. The apartment
Endzela was in the apartment kitchen, getting dinner ready for François and herself. The menu consisted of khachapuri, satsivi with chicken, in addition to her favorite dessert – gozinaki.
She was right in the middle of the cooking process when someone suddenly called through Skype. It was her mother from Georgia.
“Endzela, my baby!” the woman said in Georgian with her unique Mtskheta-Mtianeti accent.
“Hi, mom! Wearing black again? You promised you’d be wearing a different color on your next call. You need to be strong.”
“Maybe next time... I’m finding it difficult to cheer up.”
“Well, I’ll keep insisting. Is Vasyl with you?”
“Yes, and so is grandpa.”
The woman walked away from the screen, so her daughter could catch sight of the three of them. Endzela felt sad to see them in that unassuming farmhouse room which her mother and she had decorated on a budget, yet wittily. As soon as she could afford it, she would buy them a house.
At the sight of her, the boy rushed toward the camera and started kissing it. In excitement, she also kissed the one on her computer.
“I love you, I love you so much. What about yourself? How much do you love me?”
Vasyl stretched his arms evenly.
“Wow! Probably too much?” she exclaimed in exaggerated astonishment.
He nodded emphatically.
“Knowing that makes me so happy! Well, that’s exactly how much I love you,” she said.
Endzela covered as much space as possible with her arms stretched.
Then, her grandfather, who distrusted modern gadgets, greeted his granddaughter screaming.
She laughed at her son covering his ears. Always the same old scene.
“Don’t yell, grandpa – you’re spitting out your lungs! Are you keeping old-age ailments at bay?” she asked.
“Well, the medicine I’m taking feels great. Nothing hurts anymore,” he said, showing a half-empty bottle of Georgian schnapps.
“Grandpa! Remember that’s just for celebrations.”
“There’s something around to celebrate every day.”
“You’re wor
se than a kid.”
Suddenly, her son moved across the screen from left to right, performing a dance in a conscientious way.
“Vasyl! Are you learning how to dance Khorumi?”14
“It was a surprise, mommy. Grandpa is teaching me to get admitted to dance school,” he said, pausing for a moment.
“How proud I am of you!”
Vasyl wanted to prove his dancing skills. Grandpa joined in.
Holding each other’s forearms, both began to spin around at full speed, as the mother and daughter put their hands on their heads. The scene brought about as much tenderness as it caused fright.
“You are a daredevil, grandpa! One of these days your legs will just pull out of your body.”
Following the performance, the man plopped into the couch, almost out of breath. The women applauded the singular duo. Endzela presented her mother with the khachapuri dough, as she awaited her opinion.
“It rose pretty decently. Is the mozzarella fresh?” the woman asked suspiciously.
“Yes.”
“You mean fresh from the store refrigerator or fresh from the animal?”
“Both, mom.”
Her mother frowned in disapproval.
“I’m sure that must taste like lab dust. And the feta cheese is good? Did you taste it first?”
“It’s just the kind they typically sell. There’s not enough room for a farm in the apartment.”
“Don’t you ever forget how our dishes are prepared. Georgian food is world’s best. Plus, I’d still say that if I wasn’t a Georgian myself.”
Endzela nodded smiling.
“I’m sure you would. No doubt you’d still say that if you were from somewhere else… Myself, I’m cooking satsivi with chicken and gozinaki, exactly the way you taught me. I know, our local Georgian nuts are the world’s most delicious; even so, it will be a success. He can’t compare it to our authentic food, anyway. He’s never been to Georgia.”